


The Song Remains the Same

by dailyroutineat221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Unbeta'd, and John kinda of watches it, be nice, bit of angst here, but it's alright, i have been on this one for ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dailyroutineat221B/pseuds/dailyroutineat221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was talking to him through the music, John realized. He felt warm inside. He felt grateful for being able to listen it, for Sherlock to present him with such a beautiful and meaningful gesture. And he wanted to give something back, something in return. He wanted to tell Sherlock he didn’t take it for granted, that he would never take it for granted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Song Remains the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Damnshezza for the lovely cover art.

 

It was a cold afternoon when John left the flat for a walk. The soothing breeze calming his nerves down after a harsh exchange of words with his stubborn flatmate and friend. He left the flat with a slam of the front door and the promise of not coming back soon. He spent some time out in the cold and decided for a walk, and after some minutes, wandering around the neighborhood got his mood lighter but not the cold. As he passed through the nearest parks and streets he regretted leaving without his coat or at least one of his jumpers. He looked up at the grey sky and decided to stop at the nearest cafe before the rain could catch him.

Ordering a cup of tea in an attempt to not freeze, John picked the newspaper from the table and started to look through the pages without the slightest interest. He exhaled heavily after a couple of minutes and put the newspaper down again. He looked outside and rubbed his forehead. It started to rain and he was feeling a bit numb. He rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

‘Just one minute or two.’ He mumbled to himself.

And then he was back at the flat, but the heat was broke. He was going downstairs, to the basement, to fix it because it was too cold and because Sherlock would probably get moody if he had to be kept under the blankets to be warm. He just stepped out of the last step of their basement stairs when he felt a hand grabbing his shoulder and shaking him lightly.

“Sir, you must have fallen asleep.” The waitress kindly alerted him. “We’re closing.” She offered him a smile.

“Ah, oh, thanks.” He straightened himself in the chair, blinking awake.

“Is there anything else I could do for you, sir?” She asked, glancing discreetly to the cafe door.

“Oh, no. Thank you. I’m sorry.” He fished his wallet and handed her a bill. “You can keep the change.”

With no more waiting he stood from his spot and walked to the open door. He felt the breeze again on his face. It was no longer soothing like it was a couple hours earlier but cutting uncomfortable through his skin. Bracing himself, he cursed under his breath and finally walked out of the establishment.

With cold hammering in his head and crawling up his bones, he quickly decided he didn’t want to freeze to death and started to make his way home. When confronted by their front door he almost regretted his decision. He didn’t want to go upstairs and confront Sherlock. He rather freeze. Or not, gave he already was trying to catch on his own breath as the warm air of the 221B entrance hall filled his lungs. He took a break, leaning into the comforting walls of his home, and tried to regain his composure. Apparently, his breathe must have been really loud because he heard the click of a lock and a door opening. He straightened before forcing his lips into a smile.

“Good Evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, John, it’s you,” She stated, approaching him and resting her hands on her chest in relief. “Oh, poor dear, what happened?”

She rushed to him, half hugging his curled and shaking figure.

“Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hudson.” John said shaking.

“You’re freezing!” She approached and took his hand. “ Come dear, come inside, I’ll make you a cuppa.”

“Fine. Tea’s fine.”

John followed Mrs. Hudson inside, the cozy atmosphere involving his cold spirit, bringing comfort and relaxation. John took a deep breath and let the warm air spread through his lungs and radiate to the rest of his body. Mrs. Hudson motioned a chair and he took a sit.

He watched in silence as she put the kettle on and picked two mugs from her cabinet.

“Herbal or black?” She asked softly.

John didn’t respond, he only stared at her hands.

“Silly me,” She regarded his figure. “Black for sure, poor dear.”

She poured boiling water on the mugs and waited for the tea to brew. She handled one mug to him and took a sip of hers, eyeing him cautiously.

“Thank you,” John said warming his hands on the mug. “for the tea.”

“You’re mostly welcomed, dear.”

He sighed and drank all of his tea in few gulps. His clothes were soaked and he craved for a hot shower. He motioned to stood up from his sit but Mrs. Hudson spoke first.

“Stay as much as you want.”

He looked at her with sad and tired eyes.

“Thanks, but I better be going up.”

“He’s in one of his moods,” She suggested. “I heard you two.”

“I’m sorry…” John looked embarrassed.

“No, no, dear, it’s okay. Although I thought I’d need to interfere if things had got out of control.”

“More out of control, you mean.”

“Yes,” She smiled sympathetically. “That was a rough one.”

“I never thought we would come to that.”

“Don’t worry, things are going to settle down.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Hudson, I’ve never treated him like that, I’m feeling, I’m- I feel- i-i…”

“It’s okay,”

“No it’s not. I’m angry because I’m wrong but I’m also angry because of him.”

“He has this thing in him. He is always rude, he says the most horrible things and has no sense of decency but when it is us doing these things to him, he makes us feel horrible human beings.”

John looked at her and smiled briefly.

“I bet he’s sulking on the sofa. I bet I’ll come upstairs and he’ll ignore me for the entire week. He drives me mad.” John said a bit more energetic than before.

“It’s what he does, yes.” Mrs. Hudson agreed.

“I feel miserable for saying those things to him. I want to take all back but I can’t. He would never let me.”

“Maybe if you tried.”

“What? Apologize? I don’t even think he knows what the word means.”

“Well, maybe you should try doing something instead of saying.”

John swallowed in silence and stared to his sudden empty cup. He unconsciously sank in the idea and kept quiet for several minutes. When he returned from his deep thoughts, Mrs. Hudson was already finishing clearing the table.

“Oh, I’m so sorry...” He startled “Let me help.” He said reaching for the sugar bowl.

Mrs. Hudson caught his hands tenderly and squeezed lightly.

“It’s ok, dear. I’ve got this.” She took the sugar bowl and turned to put it in the cabinets. “It’s done, see?”

“I-I, I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ve been rude and i-“ She cut him off.

“John, it’s fine.” She gave him that motherly look.

He nod and started to make his way to the door, Mrs. Hudson accompanying him with a comfort hand on his shoulder. When they reached the doorway he turned and hugged her.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

“Oh, you’re very welcomed, my poor dear.” She smiled and patted him. “Go deal with him.”

“I’d rather fight in Afghanistan again, God!”

They laughed softly and he left.

‘Climb the stairs.’ He thought to himself. “Just one step after another.’

John looked up and stared the closed door at the top of the stairs. He took a deep breath, gathered himself. As he walked up the stairs, he felt unsettled, something troubling him. As he tried to picture all the possible scenarios he could be confronted by and he slowed down. His feet began sticking to the stairs, they were pulling him down with growing force and he found himself stuck half way to the top. He paused and took a moment to contemplate the situation and in an impulse of courage decided to get over with whatever he’ll have to deal. His feet let go and he nearly fell backwards, but successful ended in the top.

He opened the door cautiously and stepped into the flat with soft steps, greeted with a sad melody and Sherlock’s silhouette moving along with the music performed in the dark. He closed the door even more carefully than the way he opened it.

He forgot about their row for an instant and just existed there; absorbed in the music and the warmth of the room. He thought about some fights they had and how Sherlock used to react to them. He smiled briefly at the memory of Sherlock sulking, his figure curled on the sofa and how he forced himself to ignore John until some interesting case popped up and forgetting about it almost instantly.  
Just a bit stunned, John found himself wrapped in the melody and the harsh but precise movements of Sherlock’s body as he played his violin. He leaned back in the door and stood there for several minutes just listening and watching.

He watched the pale streetlight working around Sherlock’s shadowy body, giving life to his agitations, drinking every movement of Sherlock’s arms and head as he performed such strong piece of music. John doesn’t understand a thing about Classical music, but he let himself sink into the tender melody that was so beautifully performed in front of him. He stayed there for an immensurable amount of time, just watching and listening.

Then, something dragged him back to full awareness. Sherlock launched into what initially could be mistake for the same piece from only seconds ago, but the differences rapidly grow clear, even for his untrained hearing. A slightly change in the rhythm. Heartbreaking. Warping the phrase from adoration into melancholy. The passion softening the agitation from before.

Sherlock turned in his heels and stood in his full persona in front of their sofa. His movements less aggravating than before. He played almost silently with his eyes closed. His jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed. John licked his lips apprehensively and inhaled deeply.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and despite the darkness of the room, John could see his pupils constricting under the pale light coming from the window. He sucked in a breath and stared at John intensely just to shift his eyes away one second later. John froze.

Sherlock turned his back to John again and continued on playing his violin. John took a step ahead but stopped. He felt a slightly tremor on his hand and tried to shook it off. He walked across the room and stopped behind Sherlock. John’s chest only mere inches away from his back.

Sherlock ceased playing but kept his pose, not lowering the violin or the bow. He felt John’s presence behind him and looked out of the window. He waited for John to say something but the only sound inside the room was the soft sound of their breaths.

“You should at least come up with words before you try to say something.” Sherlock said lowering his arm gently.

John cleared his throat.

“I couldn’t find anything to say.”

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock felt John’s breath colliding against the fabric of his gown.

“I know.”

John tried to reach something of Sherlock; his arm, his hand, his shoulder, his violin, his hair, his robe but hesitate again, instead he said, “You were playing something different before. Before I arrived.”

Sherlock turned around like a hurricane, staring John in the face, his face absorbed in complete shadows. John felt vulnerable for not being able to see Sherlock’s face while his own was completely out in display, illuminated by the streetlight.

“Oh, you noticed.” Came the deep voice from the, still, faceless form.

“Erm, yes.”

“Hm” Sherlock hummed.

“I always notice you.” John offered, sounding weakly and full of doubts.

Sherlock turned in his heels, giving John his back again. He said nothing. John was about to swallow his frustration and walk away and, once more, letting Sherlock have it in his own way. He backed away few inches from Sherlock’s proximity and before his brain could command his feet to function, his mouth got in the way.

“You looked sad.” He blurted out.

Sherlock remained in silence, just facing the window.

“And then you looked angry.”

“I’m not.” He said sharply.

“Angry or sad?”

Sherlock exhaled deeply and with a gracious movement of arms resumed playing his violin. John staggered in his spot and, once again, he was witnessing the struggle between his body and his mind. He took one step away and hesitated, sucked in a deep breath then took teo steps ahead and he was again with his chest mere inches apart from Sherlock’s back. He exhaled tiredly and dropped his head forth, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s back, right where his spine joins the base of the neck.

If Sherlock anticipated John’s movement, he did not let it show. He just kept playing as though John wasn’t there. His arm working energetically on the instrument and his posture unswerving. John sighted.

“I could never reach you.” He spoke softly against the fabric of Sherlock’s robe.

Sherlock paused the melody. Although John could not distinguish if it was for him or if it was part of the piece performed.

“You…” Sherlock began but the sentence trailed off.

“Can’t never reach you,” John repeated and added “I I- I can’t… find something right to say.”

Sherlock sucked in an imperceptible breath and started to play again. Somehow, it was right. It was enough and John buried his face in the warm body in front of him. He approached, closed the gap between their bodies, resting his whole body against Sherlock without any embrace.

“I can reach you now,” He murmured. “If you let me.”

John started to drag his arms around Sherlock’s figure as he played a beautiful and soft melody. John’s hands slowly tracing their way from Sherlock’s hips, waist and belly, coming to rest in his chest in an odd embrace.

“Is it acceptable?” John asked.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked lowering the intensity of his music.

“Answer the bloody question, Sherlock.” John commanded, although he sounded gently.

“It is.” He paused the music only to accommodate himself into John’s arms and body, making himself comfortable before he could resume playing. This time the music was quieter, violin-playing reaching out with such emotion that it felt like he was answering John’s questions with melody, filling up the void of doubt inside his chest. Sherlock was talking to him through the music, John realized. He felt warm inside. He felt grateful for being able to listen it, for Sherlock to present him with such a beautiful and meaningful gesture. And he wanted to give something back, something in return. He wanted to tell Sherlock he didn’t take it for granted, that he would never take it for granted.

“Sherlock…” He tried.

His hands sliding nervously through Sherlock’s chest and torso. Sherlock shivered lightly under his touch, resulting in an extensive vibrato at the end of the phrase in the music.

“John…” Came the deep baritone voice.

Calling, claiming, and pleading.

The music proceeded, growing more strenuous with dynamic notes. John let his right hand relax on Sherlock’s hip and the other resting flat on his stomach. He slowly lowered his touch, reaching the elastic band of Sherlock’s pajamas, inserting the tip of his fingers under the pants, feeling the pubic hair brush lightly at them. Sherlock let out a sigh but managed to keep at his rhythm. John propped his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder blade to support the weight of his head, his breath leaving wet spots in Sherlock’s dressing gown. With much gentleness John conducted Sherlock’s pants out of the way and experimentally caressed the semi hardness of Sherlock’s member. Sherlock hitched a note and a breath at John’s bare touch. John fumbled a bit before wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s cock. He breathed a strangled laugh.

“I don’t even know if you want this.”

John mumbled and stilled his hand. Sherlock kept playing his piece and just when John was considering the whole idea as a mistake Sherlock pushed slightly forward as he produced the highest note on his performance till the moment. Still uncertain, John tightened his grip around Sherlock, feeling him hardening between his fingers.

John moved his hand gradually and unhurriedly, and each time it went from the base to the tip Sherlock almost imperceptible thrusted into it. John curled his hand around the head, twisting it gingerly until he felt the viscous content gushing out. To spread it through the length of Sherlock’s member, John firmed and rushed his movements which got Sherlock panting out and earned short and comprised notes from his violin. Sherlock tried to angle his bow but it only rendered a scratchy sound.

John continued to move his hand steadfastly, speeding up when he felt all Sherlock’s foreskin retracted. He listened carefully to the still harmonic sounds coming from Sherlock’s violin, muffling his owner soft pants.

Sherlock breath was coming out in soft pants but his heart was drumming in a totally different tempo in his ribcage. John could feel it through Sherlock’s clothes, through Sherlock’s flesh, skin. He could feel it pulsing and throbbing in his hands. Hot and heavy.

And with rapid variations in pitch, Sherlock started to moan along with the melody and John was so focused in bringing Sherlock to the edge that he almost didn’t notice when a brief climax slowly brought the music to a calm, rapt end, with the solo violin musing in glistening harmonics causing Sherlock to shudder violently and instantly come in John’s hand.

Sherlock gone limp and totally relaxed, barely holding himself up. He lowered the violin with trembling arms and John took it with his clean hand. John disentangled himself from the embrace and, without any words, deposited it on the armchair.

Sherlock quickly kicked his trousers and pants off and wrapped his dressing gown around himself. He sighed, looking out of the window and when he turned around to face his flatmate, he found he sitting on the armchair staring him.

John was the first to break the silence.

“Look, Sherlock, we don’t have to talk about it.”

He pitched his lower lip and looked away.

“John… i-I”

“it’s okay, i just-“

“Was… was that an apology?” Sherlock abruptly cut John off.

“No, oh, no I wouldn’t, I mean I –“

“Then why?” Sherlock inquired.

“I don’t know, I think I,” John blabbed. “Look, it doesn’t have to work that way I was-“

“But if I want it to work that way?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise and swallowed.

“You can want it.” He said, looking intently at Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced a wary look at him and turned his back again, looking out of the window.

“I want it.” John confirmed.

And Sherlock smiled surreptitiously at the London cloudy night and although he thought John couldn’t see it, John knew it from the slightly elevation of his ears from the back of his head that Sherlock was okay with that and he absolute knew it from the rhythm beat of his heart.

 

 

END.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked this story? Try my other works:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/users/dailyroutineat221B/works
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
